Azkaban Cold
by Socrates7727
Summary: Angsty drabble one-shot, Draco is in Azkaban and reflects on some things... Written for Round One of the IWSC Summer Camp! *not happy*


AN I do not own HP or any of the characters! This is a one-shot written for round one of the IWSC Summer camp!

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Story Title: Azkaban Cold

Activity/Round: Kayaking - Up the creek without a paddle.

Prompt: Write about someone who has gotten themselves into trouble, and find that they have no possible way of getting themselves out of it. (50 points)

Due: July 8, 2019.

Word Count: 988

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This was not at all how things were supposed to go. Draco nudged the bars in front of him with one foot, but he knew better than to kick them—even in frustration—because the howl of pain that would inevitably follow would only draw the Dementors closer. Also, his foot was still bruised and throbbing from the last time he'd done it.

He was cold.

It seemed so ridiculous and so ordinary because he'd been cold a thousand times before in his life but it had never been so… persistent. Icy winter winds had only touched his skin, and even a Quidditch match in the freezing rain had chilled only to his bones. Those had been unpleasant, of course, but nothing like this. Azkaban cold was a different kind of cold, and he could remember hearing that get passed around the halls when Sirius Black had been at large but he'd never really understood it. Not like he did now, at least.

Azkaban cold wasn't skin deep, and it wasn't just in his bones. It wasn't something he could fix with a hot meal, or a heating charm, and he could have set himself on fire but it wouldn't have made a dent. Because Azkaban cold wasn't a temperature, as much as it was a state of being. Draco wasn't cold the way he was angry or stiff from sleeping on the floor—he was cold the way he was human, and the way he was a failure. It was a permanent, unchangeable part of everyone it inhabited, as ingrained as the color of his eyes or the shape of his hand.

And he hated it.

They were supposed to be here by now! He knew, realistically, that they weren't coming anymore. Draco had failed the Dark Lord for the golden words and glittering promises of none other than Harry James Potter, and he was suffering greatly for it. There had been a plan, of course—he'd help create it in the first place.

The war was supposed to be won by now. The Dark Lord should have fallen weeks ago and his rescuers should have saved him within minutes. He was completely alone and completely isolated in his cell—he had no way of knowing who had won the war, or if there even was a war anymore—but it didn't really matter at this point.

If the Dark Lord had won, then Draco had been left to rot. He was neither surprised nor upset by his fact because, for all intents and purposes, he had willingly defied the Dark Lord and gone behind his back. As a Dark tyrant, Draco would have made the same call for someone in his position. No, the true sting came in the knowledge that, if the Dark Lord had managed to win or, even if the war was still happening, that his parents hadn't tried to rescue him. He'd sold himself—mind, body, and soul—for their agenda for _years_ and they were still content to let him rot.

Believe it or not, though, the scenarios where the Dark Lord had triumphed over Harry Potter were much more bearable than to think the opposite. Draco had given everything to Potter and his gang of misfits. He'd put his life in their hands, trusted them the way so many others seemed to, and for what? If the war had been won, then where were they?

They'd said they would keep him updated, but there had been a distinct, deafening silence in his cell since the day he'd arrived. They'd said they would get him out the second they were sure the Dark Lord was dead, but there he was. He'd built his every hope of survival on the glimmer of rebellion in their eyes, failing to realize that _he_ was part of what they were rebelling against.

Sometimes, he let himself think that the war hadn't been won. Maybe something had forced the Light into hiding again, or maybe there were battles being raged at this very moment? It didn't seem likely, though. The air around him felt stagnant, not electric, and he hadn't seen or heard any changes within the prison. If the Dark side was still at large, then surely they would have continued trying to free their supporters? True supporters, that is, not failures like Draco Malfoy.

The war had been won. He hated to think it, even though that had been the goal of their entire plan, but it seemed like the most likely scenario. The Light side had won, they had celebrated, and they had forgotten about him. Honestly, what was a disgraced Death Eater to the Savior of the Wizarding World? At least, he preferred to think that they'd forgotten him. Potter had gotten caught up in the fame, as always, and the others had been so relieved to be able to live again that any thoughts of him had completely slipped their minds. It was more innocent, in that version.

In Draco's least favorite scenario, and in the one that cut deep no matter how he thought about it, the war had been won and the Light side had triumphed. Potter had remembered him almost instantly, as had Weasel and Granger, but something had stopped them. Maybe Granger would mention the Mudblood incident, and maybe Weasel would spin a few tales of their school years or of Draco's failures, and, slowly, the tide would be turned.

They would leave him there to rot—not out of innocent forgetfulness, but out of _intent_. Because he was a Death Eater, albeit a failed one, and he had committed horrible crimes, or at least tried to. Because he had been nothing but cruel to them for six years, and because they finally had a chance to get back at him. Because he'd been a horrible servant to the Dark Lord but he'd been an even worse servant of the Light.

Because he deserved to be there.

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Thanks so much for reading!


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